


Ain't No Fun Run

by becisvolatile



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mistaken Identity, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becisvolatile/pseuds/becisvolatile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I'm not being chased, I'm not running."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Fun Run

**Author's Note:**

> To fill an anon prompt for Darcy/Clint and 'mistaken identity'.

"If I'm not being chased, I'm not running." Darcy said as she clutched her hot chocolate a little more firmly. "I feel that it needs to be said that the words 'fun' and 'run' should be strictly verboten from appearing in close proximity. I feel strongly about this, dude." 

"It's a lap around the lake, Lewis," Clint said as he came up to the small group hoping around, warming up for the run. " _And_ it's compulsory for Stark employees." The fundraiser was a very public show of force, an indication that despite SHIELD's disastrous fall from grace, it was business as usual for Stark Industries and the Avengers. 

" _Participation_ is compulsory, running is not. You are now looking at the official Avengers sweatshirt and water bottle minder." 

Clint couldn't argue with her, not when he felt the very strong desire to hang by the finishing line with her. Darcy was a sweet kid, sometimes - when he wasn't being careful - he even thought of her as _more_ than a kid. Whip smart, well-connected and with curves that made him want to weep, she had a way of smiling broadly at the most lowly of Stark's mail room guys and making them feel like gods. 

Every week he'd consider asking her out for a coffee, that was usually followed by a lengthy stint of self-flagellation because the last thing Darcy Lewis needed was a guy with exactly _zero_ future prospects, early onset arthritis and more than a decade on her own twenty four years. It didn't help that when women were flocking around Thor in his skintight Lycra she was hanging back, snorting into her cup with a crooked grin. She wasn't blinded by heroes and Clint felt like that _had_ to count in his favour, because he was about as far from heroic as it got. 

Not that that stopped him from putting some cards on the table and unzipping his sweatshirt to reveal the tank top he wore to run. He was no Thor, but he still got a little high from watching her eyes track across his shoulders and arms. Clint performed a galant flourish with his hoodie and draped it across Darcy's shoulders. "Look after this?" 

He was already halfway to the starting line when he looked back and watched her zipping herself into the charcoal and purple trimmed hoodie, whipping the hood up over her head with a grin. She shot him a little wave, then jammed two fingers into her mouth to sound off a sharp whistle. Clint was so busy watching her goof off that he almost missed the starters' gun. 

Thing was, it sounded _nothing_ like a starters' gun. Instead, the shot was more subdued, quicker, less-resonant and a whole lot more deadly. He was too well-trained to miss the significance of the noise. He turned against the wave of runners, Natasha brushing past his elbow as she too ran against the tide. "Where's the shooter?" 

He searched frantically, eyes scanning and- 

Darcy was standing just back from where she'd been, knees a little looser than before as she stared down at her chest in confusion. A clumsy hand came up to wipe at a growing mark on his sweatshirt and she frowned as she rubbed at it a little harder, paused, narrowed her eyes at the bloody residue on her fingers, then pitched forward to her knees before losing consciousness. 

~*~ 

For the first twenty four hours he kept to the sidelines, leaving space for her relatives. It didn't take long to figure out that no one was coming, but Thor, Foster and Selvig made for a pretty formidable family anyway. 

Mostly, Clint just wanted a target - _any target_ \- to aim for, anything to take the edge off the rage he was feeling. But he was SOL on that front, Thor hadn't missed a trick in the confusion that followed the shooting and the sniper who'd taken the shot at Darcy was nothing more than a few charred flakes floating in the breeze. What they did know was that the round they'd dug out of her now fractured sternum was meant for him. The shooter had been dangerously incompetent, hadn't looked past his sweatshirt on the wrong person and now Darcy was paying the price. 

It took three days for the medical team to deem her stable enough to coax back into consciousness. Thor had remained with Darcy throughout, resembling a vaguely aggressive Labrador, while Clint had taken pains to ensure that he spent no more (or less) time at Darcy's bedside than any of the other Avengers. 

It helped that Tony spent most of that time ragging on globally renowned surgeons, while Steve seemed to up his visits to the children's ward, ensuring to visit Darcy's suite both on the way in _and_ out of the hospital. 

"Surely she's got to wake up soon?" Clint muttered as he stalked into the room and slumped against the wall. 

"Our Darcy is stubborn," Thor said with certainty, "She will stir when it pleases her." 

Forty minutes later, it _pleased_ her to shuffle weakly against her tight bedding, crack a single eye, then mumble "Aww, boobs," before falling asleep once more. 

The second time, she flopped her head to the side and spied Mjolnir at her bedside. "Myeuh-muh!" she said with a sloppy smile. 

The time after that she was lucid (sort of) and a _lot_ more distressed, "Clint!" Her fingers wiggled until he stepped up to take her hand. "I think I got blood on your sweatshirt. Don' be mad." 

"It's not a problem, Darcy." 

"S'what happens when I run." 

"You weren't running, Darcy." 

"Attendance counts." That time, when she closed her eyes, it wasn't to sleep but to fend off the mounting pain and confusion. 

~*~ 

Three weeks later Clint stopped by Thor's rooms in the new Avenger's Tower. Thor was off planet, but Darcy and her day-nurse were making good use of the space. If only because Darcy's nurse, Devon, had refused to perform the cross-city commute to her shoebox apartment. 

Her legs were draped over the arm of the sofa, purple sock-clad feet wiggling as he approached. He sidled up to the back of the sofa and peered over at her. Common sense fled as he watched her, the top few buttons of her Henley were popped as she palmed her breasts and inspected her cleavage for the angry pucker of her wound. It was healing about as well as could be expected, but clearly too slowly for Darcy. 

Clint cleared his throat and Darcy flew up to a sitting position. 

" _Don't_ make me put a bell on you, Barton!" 

"Inspecting the goods?" he asked as he vaulted the sofa and dropped down beside her. Letting his eye slip sideways was a mistake, her bra would have rubbed uncomfortably against the scar, so she'd forgone it. For a woman of Darcy's make, that was a pretty noticeable exclusion and it was doing absolutely nothing to help him along with his, thus far flawless, 'Good Guy Clint' schtick. 

"Did you bring it?" She asked as she put her hand out, palm upwards. He handed over the neatly packaged meatball sub. 

"Devon not feeding you properly?" 

"Tony's rent-a-nanny thinks kale chips are a _treat_. At this point in time I think he's doing my recovery more harm than good." 

Clint only rolled his eyes, he was getting wise to Darcy's racket. She had half the occupants of the building bringing her treats. Not that he minded, she was gaining back the weight she'd lost after the shooting and nobody wore extra pounds like Darcy Lewis. She made Tura Satana look like the 'before' to her 'after' shot. 

"What's the plan for today?" He asked as he handed over a bag of cookies to accompany her sub. They'd stuck to board games in the earlier days of her recovery, but lately they had extended themselves with the odd walk to the coffee shop down the block, or a short trip to the labs. He kept his visits under an hour as a matter of course. Anything less than an hour was for Darcy, anything more and he was indulging his own futile wants and setting himself up for a series of cold showers. 

"Gimme your hoodie," she said as she set her food aside and stood, "I'll conceal the girls and we can go for a spin around the block. For cheesecake." 

On one level - the sane, adult one - Clint knew that his sweatshirts weren't going to magically attract bullets (excepting that one alarming occurrence) but he still hesitated. "What's Plan B?" 

Darcy dropped one hip, sat her hand upon the other and sighed, "Well, I'm feeling energetic, so I guess we could make out for a while." 

Clint had never unzipped a hoodie so quickly in his life. 

"Wow. A girl could take _that_ to heart," Darcy griped as she slipped into his sweatshirt. "I figured taking a bullet for you meant I was entitled to a little heavy petting, but... _whatever_." 

"You-" Clint dragged his palm over his face, "You're _serious_?" 

"Like a high velocity round to the chest. I mean, I figured you'd be down for it, you know with the sulking, the cross-city runs just to get me those macarons I like and the whole cushions very obviously resting on your lap from time to time." 

_Huh, she noticed that?_

"Don't sweat it Barton. I get it." 

"I really don't think you do," he said as he rubbed his suddenly sweaty hands down the fronts of his jeans. 

"Sure I do, I saw it on Dr Phil. I was all like, ' _Darce, gotta cool your jets on the Barton thing, cause that man is going to get you killed_ '. Toxic relationship, just ask Dr Phil. So I 'conceal, don't feel' and guess what?" 

"You... can't help yourself?" He tried _so hard_ to suppress his grin. 

"What am I, like twelve? Of course I can. But it turns out that I get shot _not_ dating you just as much as I would if I were. And if I'm getting shot anyway, I might as well be getting laid occasionally. Yes?" 

He felt the ridiculous impulse to reach for a sofa cushion. "Uh... yes?" 

"Don't bowl me over with your enthusiasm here, dude. I think JARVIS has more game than you right now." 

_That_ snapped Clint out of his lust induced panic. He snagged the front of his hoodie in his fist and drew Darcy in, she was still pulling what she called a 'bitchface' when he passed his lips across hers. Another pass of the lips, a little light teasing with the tongue and he'd managed to distract her enough to slip down the zipper on the hoodie. It was all in the hands. 

"Plan B?" Darcy asked as she took her glasses off and dropped them onto the coffee table. 

"Well," Clint began as he dropped his eyes, "I feel like you might need a second opinion on that scar..."


End file.
